


Workin' (at the Car Wash)

by Velocipastor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, written for deanplease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 15:27:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Velocipastor/pseuds/Velocipastor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Sam and Dean in a stolen car while Dean fixes up Baby, going through a car wash for the first time in Dean’s life, Dean gets a little freaked out by it so Sam starts…distracting him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Workin' (at the Car Wash)

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from Deanplease on Tumblr.

“Dean! Just pick a car already!” Sam hisses, throwing his arms out in exasperation.

They’re in a motel parking lot, perusing their choices of cars to steal. The Impala’s out of commission with a blown gasket in the fuel pump—Sam thinks there’s a joke in there somewhere, since Dean certainly blew a gasket when Baby refused to start (Bobby had laughed himself silly at Dean’s temper tantrum and promised to order the part for him). Dean fixes him with an offended glare.

“Just pick one?” he repeats incredulously. “Just pick one? If I could just pick one, Sam, I’d pick Baby!”

Baby sits silently at Bobby’s garage fifteen miles away and has nothing to say on the subject.

“Baby—? Dean. Just pick a frigging car. It’s not replacing the Impala. We’re just driving it until the fuel pump comes in.” Sam tries not to smile. He tries so hard, he really does, but Dean glowers as it lifts the corners of his lips anyways.

“I. Will never. EVER. Be seen. In a goddamn minivan. Ever. Again.” he states in quiet fury that is admittedly overdramatic. “I. Am not. A soccer mom.”

Sam laughs openly at him.

In the end, Dean’s grabbed a Chevy Silverado that has plates different from the state they’re currently in. The thing is dirty—alright, it’s filthy as shit, which is actually a rather apt comparison. Sam’s driving it down the road and keeps glancing at the dirt and dust and what is probably leftover blood from roadkill on the side of the car from the side-view mirrors. Dean keeps fiddling with the radio, trying to find something that isn’t One Direction or Miley Cyrus or…anything post-90’s, really. He keeps cursing and muttering under his breath until he finds Joan Jett belting out her cover of Cherry Bomb, then grins triumphantly and sits back in the seat.

“Man, Joan Jett was a babe.” he announces, just as Sam is pulling into a Delta gas station. He looks at the gas gauge, which is three quarters full, then at Sam. “What’re you doin’?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s blood on the side of the truck, Dean. We’re going through the car wash.” There’s an odd silence from Dean at this proclamation. Sam glances over curiously. “What?”

“Sam, in all the years we’ve been driving, have you never thought about how Dad and I never once took Baby through one?” Dean asks. Sam realizes with a start that he’s right. When he was at Stanford, he’d gone through several. It never seemed like a big deal.

“…okay.” he says slowly, looking at Dean like he’s waiting for the punch line. When it doesn’t come, he shakes his head and slowly steers the truck to the end of the line. Paying the clerk takes thirty seconds, and Dean rolls up his window. Sam doesn’t miss the mistrustful glance around the cabin of the truck, as if there’s some way soapy water is going to leak in and ruin the interior—which Dean shouldn’t care about, by the way, because it’s just something they’re driving for the week and a half it’ll take to get the new fuel pump and get it into Baby.

Oh, wonderful, he’s thinking of the Impala as Baby.

Sam shifts the truck into neutral and waits as they’re rolled forward slowly. When the first jets of water hit the front of the truck, Dean jumps visibly. “What the hell are they doing, having the water pressure set that high?!” he demands. “If there’s any chips in the paint underneath all the shit on this truck, it’ll—“

“Dean,” Sam interrupts in a voice like he’s talking to a cranky child, “it won’t matter. This is just a temporary thing, remember?”

Dean stares at him in horror.

“It’ll kill the paint job.” he says slowly, trying to get it through Sam’s thick skull and fluffy hair that this is indeed a bad thing.

“I really don’t think it will.” Sam replies. An eyebrow is quirked and an amused grin is playing at his lips.

“And what the hell is that noise, anyways? Why’s it so damn loud?” Dean frowns—well, no, he really pouts—out the window, and that’s when giant brushes at the side of them start whirring. The noise multiplies exponentially, and Sam can’t hold back a laugh as his brother jumps. “What the hell is this?!”

“Automatic brushes, Dean.” he answers patiently. If he’d known Dean’s reaction was going to be so paranoid, he would’ve dragged them through a car wash a lot sooner.

Besides, car washes make it so they’re alone in a small space. Neither of them has to concentrate on driving, and from the way Dean’s eyes are childishly wide and darting around to try and make sense of everything, he needs a distraction, anyways.

“Look at me.” Sam pitches his voice low, into the register with the rough timbre he uses when telling Dean to take off his clothes, or to suck his cock, or that he wants to suck his cock. Dean recognizes it, obviously, as his head spins around to Sam fast enough to make the tendons creak. Sam can feel a slow, lazy smile spreading across his face; Dean recognizes that, too. His green eyes do a slow up-and-down of Sam’s body as an answering grin lights up his face.

“I’m looking,” he murmurs.

Sam unbuckles his seatbelt and slides close enough their thighs are touching. One giant hand cups Dean’s jaw and tilts it upwards. Dean’s lips part expectantly, in anticipation, and Sam isn’t in the mood to tease. He kisses him lightly.

Like always, Dean feels a tingle in his lips and an excited zing run up his spine. He tilts his head a little more and presses forward into it, a warm thrill settling in his chest at the soft, wet sound of their lips working together slowly. Sam keeps his face in one hand, but the other is at his chest, nails dragging down and back up until running over his nipple. It’s a barely there touch, but Dean can feel his cock hardening in expectation. Sam doesn’t leave him hanging; he scratches again, a little firmer this time, twisting lightly with his fingertips, and Dean lets out an almost-silent grunt. He backs away an inch to swallow heavily—honest to god, Sam’s capable of driving him half out of his mind from the way he’ll play with his nipples—and moves back to start mouthing at Sam’s jaw line. Sam goes crazy for Dean’s kisses at his neck or the easy nips to his ear. Especially the easy nips to his ear. He loves how Dean’s lips will close around his earlobe, loves how Dean will suck gently at it, will roll it between his teeth, will bite the shell of his ear and moan into it.

The hand cupping his jaw leaves to slide its sensual way down to his waist, fingertips trailing at his throat and again at his shoulder. Dean lifts slightly into the touch; he knows Sam knows he craves it, gets off on Sam touching him faster than anything else ever did.

He knows Sam gets off on him too, like when he’ll move his kisses down Sam’s neck to his collarbones, lick and bite at the muscles in his chest and kiss his abs before he bites that sexy V created by Sam’s hipbones and defined musculature.

That’s what he’s starting to do, sucking a bruise above his collarbone, when Sam moans low in his throat and pushes him away. Dean’s pressed against the truck door with a confused look while Sam moves quickly back into the driver’s seat and buckles himself back in securely. His eyes are a little wild, but Dean’s pretty sure his are too. There’s sunlight creeping back in, first through the windshield and then the side windows, and Dean remembers with a start that they’re in the car wash. Sam clears his throat, waits for the very end of the wash line and the little traffic light to turn green indicating he can go, then shifts the truck into drive. He rolls down the window and passes a dollar as a tip to the girl in uniform running a soft rag along the truck’s body to get the last of the water. Dean’s staring at him when Sam looks back to him with a playful grin.

“How was your first trip through the carwash, Dean?” he asks innocently. Dean snorts and smacks his arm.

“Shut up and drive, Sam. I’ve got a hard-on I want you to take care of, and you’ve got one that I want to lick.”

Sam goes fifteen miles over the speed limit to get back.


End file.
